What the Hell is Going On?
by IronAmerica
Summary: The Jackals learn of their captain's wedding to Peter Fleming. Reactions vary. Sequel to INPYH&C. BIOTP 'verse.
1. Where Are We?

Hey, it's a new story! Jake starts off a long chain of reactions after INPYH&C.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

What The Hell Is Going On?

Chapter one: Where Are We?

Jake Lofgren was in a state of extreme bliss. He had, finally, gotten exactly what he wanted: Priceless blackmail on his former captain. And he hadn't even had to have his little brother doctor said evidence. Truly, it was almost perfect. It was all thanks to his new best friend Holly Black that he even had these pictures.

It hadn't taken much to get several dozen copies of each photo from her. She'd seemed rather happy to give them to him when he'd asked. Then Lofgren realized that it was the easiest way to keep the blackmail potential from ever being wiped out. It had made him happy. He'd taken her out to a nice dinner after he'd gotten the photos developed.

Holly, the dear, deserved the dinner (at a five star restaurant he had a permanent table at, for reasons best left unexplained) he treated her to. It was lovely. The biggest thing keeping the smile on his face (aside from how Holly looked in the backless black haltertop evening gown she'd dug out of storage) was the bag of blackmail residing in his backpack. He was going to get his old sergeant to send them out to everyone in the old unit.

He normally wouldn't have been able to do something like that, but since Holly was the one who'd called him in—an unattached civilian who had absolutely no prior connections to the Jackals—the gag order was no longer in effect. (Jake suspected the lawyers at the DOD hadn't been expecting any of them to find an uninformed civilian who would get them into a meeting together, which was why the clause had been there in the first place.) Sergeant Hanson was going to love this.

Jake happily paid for the overnight mailing from Ochun City to Georgia. The insurance on the manila envelope cost him several grand, but it was all worth it. The look on the postman's face as he'd purchased nearly a hundred-thousand dollars worth of insurance had been priceless.

He just wished he could see the looks on everyone else's faces when the pictures got to them.

It would have been hilarious.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is Jake going to be in trouble when Vince finds out? Drop a line and let me know!

Author's note: I am currently in NaNo mode. This is one pre-written story for the month of November. I am currently at 26K out of 100K, and still chugging along. Wish me luck!


	2. Best I Ever Had

It's an update! Sergeant Hanson gets his package.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Chapter two: Best I Ever Had

Sergeant Gregory Hanson sat on his back porch, reading a book and drinking a tall, cold glass of iced tea. His rifle rested against the wall behind him, within easy reach. He was waiting for the golf tournament to start. Every year, at least thirty golf balls sailed over his fence (which now reached nearly thirty feet, if the netting was included); every year, at least ten golfers complained that their two-hundred dollar monogrammed golf balls disintegrated because a nutcase with a shotgun had destroyed their property. Hanson was safe from their complaints, though, because his fence was tall enough to mark his property, and he had lived in the area for long before the golf course had been built.

His quiet contemplation of the fence and his book were interrupted by one of the local kids running up the dirt path to his porch, holding a package in one hand, waving it in the air.

"Mr. Hanson! You got mail!" the kid yelled. It was Tori, the postman's daughter. She had short hair and was dressed for an Indian Summer in shorts, a tank top, and Birkenstock sandals. The girl came to a halt in front of his steps, bent double as she tried to catch her breath.

"Do tell," Hanson rumbled, putting his bookmark back in. He stood up and walked over to the porch railing. "Well, let's see it." He very rarely got mail out here in his neck of the Georgia backwoods—well, except for the usual legal notices from the golf course, telling him to cease and desist, and those usually went into his kindling box in the living room.

Tori handed the package up to him, and sat on the steps. "Are you going to shoot more golf balls?" she asked, leaning back so she could look up at him. Hanson nodded, studying the label on his mail. Huh. Lofgren must've found his way around the government restrictions…

"Are you gonna finally teach me how to shoot 'em?" Tori piped up again. Hanson didn't respond, staring at the pictures Lofgren had sent him. There were at least fifteen of them. High quality, glossy photos of tabloid quality, taken with a good camera at close range. He stared at them, lips twitching.

Hanson burst out with a full, belly-rumbling laugh as he looked at the pictures. Oh, this was too good to keep to himself. Tori sighed and rolled her eyes as Hanson ignored her question. Some stupid adult thing, she decided.

Sergeant Hanson put the pictures down on his porch swing and headed inside to get a mailing label. Quality photos like this, with so many copies of each one, were meant to be shared. Hartman could use some cheering up…

After all, when else was the kid going to be able to see pictures of their favorite commanding officer with another guy's hands on his rear and said other male's tongue shoved down his throat?

It really _was_ too good to keep to himself.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is Hanson being too cruel to his former CO? Drop a line and let me know!

Author's note: 38K! WOOOOOO! (And this was supposed to be my day off.)


	3. Devil's Right Hand

Hey, it's an update! I'm at 50K! Have a new chapter! Hartman gets the package.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter three: Devil's Right Hand

Corporal Tom Hartman sat in his room, staring at the wall. He was bored. There was nothing to do. His lighter had been taken away from him again. (Hey, it wasn't _his_ fault the uniforms here were so flammable.) He sighed and leaned back against the padded wall, trying to find a new pattern in the blank white wall in front of him. He wasn't having much luck.

His doctor hadn't been too impressed with his latest bout of pyromania, and had sent him back to his cell (alright, it was called a room to keep some of the other patients here calm, but it was a cell no matter how it was dressed up). Hartman had been given a new prescription, but the corporal wasn't counting on it working too well. The others that had been tried hadn't worked—hell, Hartman knew he didn't need them. Well, not all of them, anyways. The lithium was definitely helping, as were the anti-anxiety meds. Everything else was just a waste of time and taxpayer money.

One of the orderlies came into the room, deposited an envelope on his cot, and left. Hartman shrugged, rolling his neck as he stood up. The vertebrae popped loudly in the silent room, sounding a bit like gunfire. He grinned and picked the package up.

Hartman looked at the pictures in the package (newly arrived from Sergeant Hanson, which said lots of nice things about a pesky gag order that no longer existed) and laughed. Ah, the things officers got up to when their men weren't there to look after them…

He stared at them for a good long while, analyzing every bit of each image he had. No way… Corporal Hartman grinned and snickered. A few minutes later, he was rolling on the floor, laughing like a maniac. Oh, Captain Faraday…

After he managed to stop laughing, Hartman headed to his cell door. He needed some mailing supplies.

Hopefully his psychiatrist would take the interest in correspondence as a good sign…

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Will this cause Vince psychological trauma? Drop a line and let me know!

Author's note: I need more hobbies. Am at 50K on the NaNo, which means I'm halfway done! WOOOOO! Wish me luck!


	4. Tell Me What It's Like

Hey, it's a new chapter! Winston Greene has problems. But at least he's happy.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter four: Tell Me What It's Like

Winston Greene—Winny, to his few friends—was in a bad mood again.

It was a normal state of being for him these days, but this time it was a lot worse. He took a drag on his cigarette, inhaling the nicotine. He'd picked the habit up a few days ago. It was _still_ doing nothing for him. He'd finished the box—this was the last one—and he wasn't going to waste his money on anything else. Self-medication had also been experimented with over the past few years, before being discarded as a bad job. (Getting mugged while strung out on knock-off vicodin was not a pleasant way to spend an evening.)

He was standing in the rain outside the post office, waiting for it to open. Very few people knew how to get in contact with him. One of them wasn't allowed to talk to him, except under limited circumstances, and the other was in the loony bin and probably wouldn't be contacting him even if the circumstances had been met. Winny hated his life some days.

"And some days," he muttered, flicking the spent butt into the pouring rain, "it's really not worth chewing through the straps." The man laughed bitterly and pushed himself off the wall as the door to the Greenville post office opened. Time to get his mail—mostly junk mail, and the occasional jury duty notice—before going back to yet _another_ inspiring day of work at a bar he hated with a passion. (He would have found another better, more _fulfilling_ job, but the point of his exile was to avoid military prison or the psych ward, like Hartman.)

Winny grabbed his mail out of the box, grunting a hello at the postman, who glowered at him. The former soldier pushed his damp hair out of his eyes, glared at the man as he stuck his mail under his coat, and headed out into the pouring rain. The Last Chance diner was open for breakfast, which was only a good thing. It meant he could have something that resembled real food before he went to work up to his elbows in stale beer and boiling oil.

He opened the first package as he sipped his coffee. His eyes widened and he began choking on the hot liquid. Fifteen pictures spilled out across the table.

"And some days," Winny muttered in awe, staring at the picture of his old CO getting hitched to some guy who looked kind a familiar (for some reason, Winny wanted to think of really big guns and things that went _boom_). The kissing was… Well, there was a reason Mrs. Captain Faraday had threatened the Jackals with castration if they tried to get her husband-to-be drunk at his Stag Party. (And then there was the fact that, even after eleven years, she was probably mad at them for taking her husband to see the Chippendales instead of honest female strippers. Why she would… Oh yeah. The booze.)

"I wonder how much he had to drink before these," Winny mused, looking at the photos Hartman had sent him. He shrugged. "Least he found a guy who's better looking than that Chippendale." He laughed for the rest of the day.

The best picture was taped next to his cot at home.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Vince is just going to give up with the assassination attempts if he ever finds out about this at this point? Drop a line and let me know!

Author's note: I hit over 83K today! WOOOO! I might actually make 100K this year. :D


	5. Can You Heart it in the Air?

Sadly, this is the finale of the story. Things come full circle.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away!

- o – o -

Can You Hear it in the Air?

Holly groaned into Jake's shoulder as her phone rang.

She had given that number out to…no one, actually. Well, the nursing home had her extension in case dear ol' dad finally flipped his nut and had to be declared senile. _As if _that_ would happen_, the chaplain of the Black Wedding Chapel though morosely. The phone continued to ring. Holly swore into her bedmate's shoulder and began fumbling around on the nightstand for the phone.

She was going to have to murder whoever was on the other end of the line for waking her up from a good dream…

"What?" Holly groaned, hitting send. The young woman didn't bother to look at the number on her screen as she accepted the call. She sounded a bit irritable, which was perfectly alright. It was…she checked the clock…_two in the morning_. That was obscene. Didn't people have any sense of deceny anymore? (Or a concept of time?)

-_Miss Black?-_ the polite voice on the other end of the line said. Holly nodded, yawned, and replied in the affirmative. –_You are _the_ Miss Holly Black, of the Black Wedding Chapel?_-

Holly sat bolt upright. "I swear to god, if this is about the goddamn certificates again, I am going to kill you, Charlie!" She'd been having trouble with one of the clerks at the city hall. Threats to castrate him if he continued to grope her (or tried to, anyways) had done nothing to stop the harassment.

"Holly…?" Jake mumbled sleepily, padding around her side of the bed. Holly shoved his hand away and jumped up, wrapping her bathrobe around herself as she stalked out of her bedroom and into the living room/dining room of her crappy apartment.

-_I assure you, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about, Holly. Can I call you Holly?_-

_No_, Holly thought darkly, slumping down on her sofa. She propped her feet up and began fishing for the television remote. If she was going to get reamed out by someone at two in the morning, she could at least watch reruns of crappy daytime television to perfect the triptych. _Or an infomercial_. "Yeah, sure," she replied, yawning widely again. Her jaw cracked.

-_Thank you, Holly. My name is Peter Fleming. You officiated at my recent wedding_.-

Holly felt her stomach bottom out. Oh god. She was dead. Peter Fleming was calling her. Any second, a goon squad was going to burst through the door to shoot her. At least she'd had the best sex of her life before she got whacked…

"Um…yeah. Yeah I did," Holly agreed idly, wondering if she could convince Jake to pay for her funeral. She wanted to get shot into space, or into a volcano, or something… Interesting.

_-Good. How would you like to perform the actual wedding ceremony, for a larger crowd? …Miss Black? Is everything all right?_-

Holly, who had been heading to the kitchen for her bottle of emergency vodka, had tripped over a book. It was mostly out of surprise, but… She groaned and sat up.

"Sure."

-_Wonderful. My assistant will call you later today to arrange the details. Oh, and Miss Black? Don't sell the pictures to the tabloids. My husband doesn't like it._- Holly stared at her phone long after the man had hung up, mouth hanging open in shock.

She was going to drink that bottle of vodka.

_After_ her head stopped trying to explode.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Holly shouldn't drink so much at once, even considering her recent shock? Drop a line and let me know!

Also, NaNo is done (for me). Final word count: 100,201. Cups of coffee averaged a day: 11. Sanity: Non-existent.


End file.
